Category: Essays & Poetry

We, as humans, belong to the kingdom of the suffering. We learn about different diseases in class that take root in each of us differently. A friend at my table remarks that she has a heart problem; another reflects on his diabetes. I tell the group about a medication I take. Some people are overweight, others are underweight. While some are spared from allergies, few escape the common cold. The pathologies that plague us are not unique; we could share them with a stranger or with a friend. Sickness unites us. Sickness tears us apart.

As medical students, we belong to each other. People form subgroups, slowly conforming to a belief in unfounded superiority. Some brag about their future in orthopedics with a promise of a big paycheck. Alternatively, others, with shadows of moral superiority, say they are going into family medicine. While groups themselves can be positive, they corner us into stigma and stereotypes with ease. No medical student is a stranger to these follies. Why can’t we choose to belong with everyone or is that the point? That we circle off into groups to isolate ourselves and, in doing so, create the absence of belonging elsewhere.

We belong to the group that grows desensitized to death, the group that has faced a body in front of them they are tasked to cut apart. We belong to Michelangelo, Leonardo, and the enlightened few of past generations; we belong to body snatchers, butchers, and coroners. We know that if we receive the blessing of old age, our cartilage will wear down, our arteries will crunch, and our organs will slowly shut down. I cannot yet tell whether I take comfort or fear in knowing, in one way or another, how I will one day die. Despite not knowing the specifics, we share in knowing the mechanism of death.

We belong to the league of people who dedicate their lives to others. We share a dream with Asclepius and Hippocrates to do no harm. Mothers, fathers, friends, coaches, mentors, and teachers start a mission that we help complete. Together, we raise society so that individuals can reach their potential. When a mother passes on a genetic disease, we serve as counsel to the mother and help the child maintain health. When a classroom catches lice, we restore order. When a coach’s favorite athlete falls during practice, we help get them back on the pitch. We belong not only to patients, but also to their community of supporters. We form a team to raise others the best we can.

It started with a sharp demeanor,
a serious environment.
Here we go—
just another wall of provider burnout
to slowly chip away
in order to learn.

Me, a student,
preserved from the mire
that years of healthcare toil seem to accumulate.
Yes sir, yes ma’am.
Do not irritate—
not even in the slightest.

I remember life outside these clinic walls.
It, too, began with humdrum small talk—
this and that about where we’re from.
Time dragging on,
eager to come home
to silence and familiar faces.

New city, new faces,
new meaning to be made.
No one seems to actually care.
Starting over from scratch.
Again.

Then—
a smile,
soft as it was.
Time begins to loosen its grip.
I’m no longer in the way.

Books full of medical tips and pearls
find their way into my bag,
lent so generously
by this cold stranger—
suddenly, a bit warmer.

The student in me grows:
What does this signify?
Could this be that condition?
How did you do that again?

I feel respected.
My shoulders drop.
Do I feel… at home?

The world of medicine feels—
dare I say it—approachable.
I dream of the future:
me, a doctor.
Soon to be.

How could this be?

I remember time—
its etching, on and on—
and with it, familiarity.
All of my life began
as strange morsels of uncertainty,
somehow swelling into blooms
of treasure I dare not lose.

My home,
my community,
the softness and love I have for it all—
none of it began this way.

Can I begin
to break past the sharp boundaries of waiting?
Why must I wait on time?
Is there a way
to treasure
the now?

You won’t look me in the eye,
And I can’t help but wonder why.

Your gaze drifts to the floor,
As if you’re not sure you’re wanted anymore.

All I want is your medical history,
Yet you keep yourself a mystery.

Silence is all I receive,
What is it that you grieve?

Is it sorrow, is it shame?
A past too dark to ever name?

Is it just homeless shelter you seek?
This is a clinic – sorry to be bleak.

Is the grasp of law you escaped?
I see your arms are a bit purple and misshaped.

Is it the shadow of addiction that follows and lurks?
Don’t worry, I won’t share your quirks.

There’s a hill that crests across the Interstate 20 as I drive back to my apartment. In early spring, the side of the road is flush with green grass and trees no longer barren, blurred by both dust brought by the Texas winds and the steady speed as my foot pumps the gas. For a moment, I am transported back home.

The beauty of California is something I remember fondly – the mountains that surround my home that fade from emerald to ochre and back again as the seasons pass by, the rolling fog that is later cleared by a summer air.

There’s a hill on which my grandmother’s skilled nursing facility is housed. The last time I spoke with her was her birthday over a Facetime call. I was in Texas studying medicine and she turned a momentous 100. She did not remember who I was.

My grandmother had a stroke when I was a child. We were never close, and I hate to admit that I cried more when my cat went missing for two days in the same time period than when my grandmother was admitted to the hospital. There was not much I could understand about what was happening at the time, but there were cords and wire, and maybe a ventilator. Her room was at the end of the hall, and the nurses would come and go through a key-padded room – the pin for the door remains my phone password. Now, however, I can come up with differentials like vascular dementia to understand what I couldn’t then.

I remember the hills of my home, the same hills in which my father grew up, and where my grandmother resided for much of her life. While these slopes hold so much weight for me, I question whether the view that my grandmother sees from her nursing home is simply just a view.

Where do we go when we grow old?

I saw a patient in the psychiatric emergency department recently who could not remember how she got to the hospital. She remembered details of her home, of her old jobs, but not why the police found her pulled over on the side of the road. Without support systems in place, she was left to wander. This is not a unique story.

For the elderly, social isolation is a growing health concern. In my college research group, we read a paper about a heat wave that rampaged through France in 2003. While many were affected by the lack of infrastructure at the time, the majority of the death toll was made up by geriatric population. Soon the crisp spring air and my hill across the I-20 will transform into Texas’ typically bleak and dry summer landscape. The days become longer as the temperatures become taller – what is to stop the same tragedy in France from happening to the people of these plains?

There is beauty in aging. The majority of my family medicine clinic consists of a geriatric clinic. With my patients, I hear stories of a city transformed, of a life lived long. Across state borders on my rare trip home, I see the lines around my mother’s eyes and the gray hair growing in my father’s mustache. To me, these are signs of wisdom and lessons learned over the course of a lifetime.

However, there is a part of me that aches with knowing that age is anything but a number. A train of thought will sometimes fall off its tracks when I talk to my parents on the phone. Sometimes, I think nothing of it, but sometimes I wonder if one day hills will be nothing more than hills for them too.

I packed my bags, I caught my flight,
This was nothing new, a task so light.
Born in Iran, my roots ran deep,
The feeling of family, my soul would keep.
But I grew up a Canadian kid,
Immigrant parents and ice to skid.
My parents came here for a better life,
Loneliness in the cold, sharp as a knife
Two homes behind, a third one in sight.
The plane was my stability, I live in flight.
Peeled from my home with dreams to chase,
Another different world, another different place.
From snow-kissed streets and maple skies,
To where the Texas sun would rise.
Yet I finally stepped foot on foreign ground,
A stranger where no roots were found.
I couldn’t reach out now, I was all alone.
A little girl frantic, forced to act grown.
This was the thing I had always wanted –
Now I stand in the middle of my dreams so haunted.
The accents strange, the customs new,
A life to build, a path to hew.
The halls of medical school stood tall,
A dream so fierce, I gave my all.
Would they see me—half, not whole?
A puzzle piece without a role?
Too Persian there, too Canadian here,
A drifting soul with origins unclear.
The pressures mount, the tests don’t end,
Barely staying afloat, “Don’t break! Just bend!”
What is it like to fi t into a box?
Never asked intrusive questions, never counting clocks?
For where I go, I bring my past—
Now three worlds in me, forever vast.
So here I stand, nor here, nor there,
Forced to fi nd home everywhere.
A child of East, a child of North,
Adaptation is what I put forth.
Yet even now, the road’s unclear,
With residency match, I chase, I steer.
Again, I’ll pack, again, I’ll roam,
Still searching for a place called home.

August 15, 2004-April 22, 2025

It is with a stomach full of joy (and zero ulcers) that we announce the passing of Hector P. Hylori, aged 20, a tenacious bacterium who fought gallantly to ruin digestive peace – but ultimately lost the battle to a negative test result and a responsible GI workup.

Born sometime in a poorly washed salad in 2004, Hector colonized with great ambition, setting up shop in the gastric antrum. For two decades, he lived a low-key life – causing only mild bloating and the occasional mystery burp. His greatest dream was to one day cause a duodenal ulcer, but fate (and a good immune system) had other plans.

Hector met his end on April 22, 2025, surrounded by laughter, good lab results, and relieved gut flora. He leaves behind no ulcers, no active inflammation, and no evidence of chronic gastritis.

A private flush was held in the porcelain chapel. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to Team Proto Pump Inhibitors or Clean Hands Club International.

“Gone but not cultured.”

RIP Hector. The gut is at peace.

The first step into the

Cold cadaveric laboratory

The first whiff of formaldehyde

That seems to permeate the walls

The first moment when the shiny zipper is pulled

To reveal what is hidden beneath

The first cut through skin

Into fat, fascia, and finally, muscle

The first surge of guilt

At the sacrifice of another

The first feeling of gratitude

Towards a complete stranger

There lies a place card

Mounted against a rusting metallic stand

With words printed on a purple, laminated sheet

They tell me what is left of you

Age. Sex. Cause of death.

But your body tells an even greater story

Of pain, surgical scars

Of adventures, tattoos

Of joy, laugh lines

Of hard work, calluses

Of life, childbirth

In you, I see a collection of firsts too

Part A (Brief description of chief complaint):

Iron Deficiency Anemia: Iron is essential in making hemoglobin, a protein in red blood cells. Iron deficiency anemia is a condition in which blood lacks adequate healthy red blood cells due to low level of iron. Common symptoms include fatigue, irregular heartbeat, pale or yellowish skin, and cold hands.

Part B (Poem):

I lack red blood cells

Lightheaded, sometimes I get

I need grass-fed beef.

Part A (Brief description of chief complaint):

Iron Deficiency Anemia: Iron is essential in making hemoglobin, a protein in red blood cells. Iron deficiency anemia is a condition in which blood lacks adequate healthy red blood cells due to low level of iron. Common symptoms include fatigue, irregular heartbeat, pale or yellowish skin, and cold hands.

Part B (Poem):

When the iron is running low,

A shadow of fatigue begins to grow.

Pale echoes in each step I take,

Anemia’s weight, a heavy ache.

In veins, a river without its might,

Transferrin, the captain, lost in the night.

Cells, like soldiers, weary and dried,

Battling fatigue, a crimson tide.

When the iron is running low,

Hematocrit staggers below.

Heart’s rhythm stumbles in faltering beat,

A symphony of exhaustion, a silent defeat.

Blood cells fade in ghostly wail,

In the mirror, my complexion pale.

Cold fingertips where blood don’t flow,

When the iron is running low.

A labored sigh in every breath,

Iron’s death, my own Macbeth.

The world spins, a dizzying show,

When the iron is running low.

Iron returns in distant dreams,

In languor’s grip, a silent scream.

Yet hope lingers like a resilient ember,

For iron’s return, a strength to remember.

Part A (Brief description of chief complaint):

A cold is a common viral infection of the nose and throat. Symptoms include runny nose, sneezing, and congestion. Because antibiotics only fight bacteria, and not viruses, they’re usually ineffective against colds. The condition is usually harmless and mostly resolves on its own within two weeks.

Part B (Poem):

With sniffles and sneezes, he caught a cold,

In bed he rested, his sinus consoled.

No pills would he take,

Just warm tea with cake,

A viral invasion, not bacteria, behold!